


A Study in All Things John

by Red Pants Purple Shirt (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Mind Palace, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-20
Updated: 2013-07-20
Packaged: 2017-12-20 18:59:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/890714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Red%20Pants%20Purple%20Shirt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Unable to process the volatile way John greets him after faking his death, Sherlock delves into his mind palace to sort through the memories surrounding John and himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Study in All Things John

**Author's Note:**

> This is a short one-shot that I wrote ages ago about Sherlock coming back after the fall and having a confusing reunion with John. Sherlock, being Sherlock, tries to figure out the root cause of their strange reunion and instead finds himself questioning just what he feels. 
> 
> I hated it at first but then revisited it and actually liked it. Now if only I could build back up my confidence to write smut now.... Anyways, this isn't beta'd, comments and kudos are much appreciated!

Earthy moss squished under Sherlock's feet as he padded over the sparsely stone covered pathway. A heavy veil of mist covered the land that was much like what surrounded the victorian house in a hamlet near Essex where he'd spent his youth. He had to turn his collar up to block the wind as he approached the destination he had been searching for since he began his journey. 

Neuschwanstein Castle, belonging to the mountainous region of Germany (formerly Bavaria). 19th century, romanesque revival, completed in 1892. It was a different castle every time and this time it took the form of the one Sherlock had seen while researching for a case involving a German art thief. 

It was very out of place in the Essex countryside and as Sherlock approached the entrance he had to run his gloved hands over the ornate handles. It was almost amusing how literal his mind castles could sometimes be when he was left with enough solitude and peace of mind. No stupid distractions, no Ms. Hudson to push a cuppa on him, or John to-. Sherlock frowned for a moment as he shoved the gatehouse doors open. Yes, no John indeed. 

 _"Hello John." Sherlock was in the kitchen sipping a cuppa, staring over the steam at the figure of a man he had not properly observed in a good few months. From his brow (deeper wrinkles - frowning extensively) to his eyes (dull, heavy bags - lack of sleep) down to his belt (two notches further - lost weight) Sherlock could tell John had not been caring for himself._  

 _John turned slowly and the expression that stretched across his face caused Sherlock to smile. Utter disbelief. He had suspected nothing, absolutely nothing._  

_"You…" John began, stumbling backwards against the side of the armchair until the backs of his knees hit it. He almost fell over it. "You…. Sherlock? No. No, no, no." John raised his hands up in the air. He let them hover there for a moment before covering his face with them._

_"Yes, me. Were you expecting someone else?" Sherlock couldn't hide the grin on his face. His reaction was grande, better than he could have anticipated._

_John shook his head firmly before turning and leaving, hands back up in the air in disbelief. "I can't believe you. You- you were dead." John's voice cracked._

_"John-" Sherlock began, his tone suggesting he was taking this all far too harshly. He couldn't see the brilliance in it. How he had faked his own death, fooled every person down to John himself._

_The door slammed._

Inside the castle itself there was a hum of information. Sherlock could hear the whispers of different information bating him to follow it in. Like a strong perfume it wafted by him, so many smells ensnaring his senses and daring him to follow along with it to the source.

He clicked his tongue at the entrance to the library in Oxford. The scent of old parchment and dust lured him closer. "Not this time." He commented slyly to the doors that creaked open and exposed old tomes lined in dark wood cases in the prestigious and airy building. They contained information on molecular biology and law from ancient sophist rhetoric to trivial divorce procedures. Things that university had crammed into his mind and Sherlock had deemed useful enough to keep around. Even some rubbish found it's way in. Sherlock stuck his hands deep in his pockets as he toed around the telly blaring Jerry Springer from it. 

Every thing had its place in his mind palace, so long as it benefitted Sherlock in some way.

Where he was intent on heading though was deep inside of his mind. Down the corridor of the palace with it's arching white ceiling and red carpet were an assortment of doors and objects that showed different parts of his brain melding together. So long as it had a place, nothing was ever truly lost. 

His hand gripped the cold metal railing that led to a deep winding staircase that sunk down from the red carpet and deep into the bowels of the castle. The staircase reminded him of the one from an old hotel he had once stayed in with John. Sherlock's hand moved away from the railing for a moment, the cold still having permeated the leather glove and sunk into his skin. It lingered there as he pulled it against himself at the memory.

That memory was sinking into him now that he'd unknowingly found it. 

_"Sherlock, honestly… we need to get going." Sherlock heard John faintly from under the pillow wrapped around his head._

_"No." He refused petulantly like a child. The case had turned out to be boring and it no longer interested him. It was painfully obvious that the string of strange children's deaths (blue skin, fluid filled lungs and fever) had been caused by ricin poisoning slipped into the cafeteria food by a recently fired and mentally unstable food worker. He simply hadn't officially solved the case yet. He was holding out in hopes that something would tangle up the case and make it interesting._

_"Sherlock, I swear sometimes I feel like I'm dealing with a child and not an adult." John sighed, rather exasperated. "Up now, or I'll take the rental car and leave to the coroner's. I will."  He threatened, but it lacked any real conviction._

_Sherlock turned over in bed, his hair in disarray and his eyes struggling to focus. The room was far too stuffy, and the warm light filtering in from the thin blinds made him squint at John. His side of the bed had been made to military standards and he was already freshly shaven and sitting at the writing desk. (Some mix up with the booking had left them sharing a room, but no mind to that.)_

_"The cook." Sherlock groaned as he turned in bed so the sheets twisted around him. John had gotten up to grab the door when their room service arrived. He could smell pancakes and jam already. It was far too early for food._

_"The what?" John asked in confusion as he brought the tray of food over to their bed. He pull his seat over to sit beside his side and began to pick at his own plate._

_"The cook did it. The hispanic one with a limp." Sitting up, Sherlock let the sheets pool down at his waist. He ignored the look he received from John when he leaned forward for a fork and it exposed him._

_"You slept naked?"_

_"Yes John? I always sleep naked. You know that." It was an obvious and useless observation after living together for well over a year._  

_That answer didn't seem to please him. "We shared a bed together Sherlock."_

_"And?" He cut a few bites of the pancake and ignored the jam. It was far too sweet already._

_John heaped the jam on and shook his head, his cheeks red. "Nothing. Obviously…. Obviously it means nothing."_

_It obviously meant something to John that Sherlock was not comprehending, but he chose to ignore it. Often John read into things that did not exist or made no sense. The feelings always complicated things and made it difficult for Sherlock to follow._

It was incredibly dark in the belly of the castle and Sherlock had to avoid drops of water that fell from the damp ceiling and down by the scattering rats below. It seemed to be more of a sewer than anything, especially with the heavy smell of musk and decay. 

"Lovely." Sherlock said, scrunching his nose as one ran by his shoes. He would have to focus a little on redesigning his mind castle next time. Surely he could do better than a sewer-

And like that, it wasn't one. All the darkness was transformed into a comfortable, warm place. It was much more fitting for where he was headed. It was a teashop, one that he'd been to with John a few times in London (more like forced into). Dark walls, blackboards with specials scrawled all over them and exposed ceiling beams made the teashop memorable. His mind must have easily grasped it.

"May I help you, sir?" A young, black woman appeared in the teashop's uniform and held out the white menu for the teashop to him. "Are you looking for something in particular?"

Sherlock gazed over the menu and grinned. A memory assistant? How wonderful! Very clever of himself. One place that served as an information hub for all things John. "One moment." Sherlock gazed down the menu of his own memories with John. There were an alarming amount and he had to flip over the menu to look at them all. Faceless people filed in and out of the doors and he could hear the whistle of kettles and the hiss of milk steamers from where he stood reading. 

He had only his memories to assist him in figuring it all out. Why John had done _that_. There was the memory of Angelo's where he had been asking all sorts of strange, irrelevant questions about his sexuality. That would have been a good place to start. The beginning was always a good place to begin if you wanted to understand motives, but it could not have been then. Surely that was too early.

There were memories written there about them solving cases together, memories of having a birthday dinner for Ms. Hudson. Dreary Sundays when they stayed in, John typing away on that horrid blog of his and Sherlock using a blow torch on human skin to predict burn patterns. So many to chose from, but then one stood out. 

**#43 Celebrating One Million Hits on the Blog - Includes: Getting inebriated with a side order of John's odd bodily responses.**

Yes. Yes, that was a memory that would prove insightful. Sherlock motioned the young girl over. "I'll have number fourty-three."

"Excellent choice." The girl smiled knowingly and then pointed to the door in the far corner meant to be the single stall washroom. "Your order will be in there. Enjoy sir."

"Thank you." Sherlock gave her a small curt nod before he wandered around the tables and chairs. The blackboards were full of John's preferences in chalk instead of specials. They were things he had deduced over the years: enjoys jam on anything baked, takes his tea without sugar, does not like to be asked about Afghanistan. Little tidbits that Sherlock had thought valuable enough to store away in his mind.

The door was ahead of him and Sherlock pressed his hands against the door.

_"Whooooo!" John hollered out, giddy like a school girl. The bottle of scotch was half drained and John had drunken himself into a stupor. "One million Sherlock. One million! That's… that's incredible, yes?"_

_Sherlock had been pulled into the festivities by force. John had thrusted the alcohol onto him and ordered him to celebrate his life's work. The Science of Deduction was his life's work, John's blog was merely a cash cow. But still he was so happy about it that Sherlock finally obliged._  

_"Oh yeeessss, incredible John." A drunken version of himself slurred back at him. "That is quite a number of people. If only they stopped ringing our doorbell for help with boring problems! I would celebrate that." He laughed and John joined in, smashing their glasses together and almost missing._

_The telly played some mindless football match in the background and John would turn to it to cheer at times before making some other joke about their fans that had accumulated._

_Eventually it had worn down into John and himself crashed on the couch with some intelligent classical music Sherlock had introduced John to an hour before still playing. There was John slumped against him as the fire flickered over their faces. It wasn't unpleasant to have John close, in fact on the contrary his drunken (but sobering) self had shifted to allow a more comfortable position._

_"Sherlock…" John began as he stared blearily into the fire. "Do you ever think about when this will end?"_

_"End? Solving cases? I plan to solve cases until the day I expire."_

_"No." John huffed and turned his head to face Sherlock. "No, I mean this… This whole "single bachelors solving crimes together" partnership we have. Surely you will want to settle down at one point?" He almost sounded nervous._

_Sherlock quickly shook his head. "Me? Settle down? I've told you I'm married to my work John and I mean it. If anyone, I would imagine you would leave." And he did not want him to. He had grown accustomed to having John fetch groceries, help him solve cases, and berate him for not eating. It was comfortable to have him around and change was not something Sherlock was overly fond of._  

_"Good." John twisted his head a little, clenching his teeth as he stared out at the fire. They laid like that for a while until it was time for bed. Sherlock had been sobered up by that point and had aided John upstairs and to his bedroom. It was there that John had begun to move in closer and closer as they came over to the bed. His clumsy fingers pulled at Sherlock's shirt in a way that made him confused. Just what did he want?_

_"Don't go downstairs. Too long… of a trip." He murmured as he flopped down onto the bed, his shirt riding up. Sherlock's stomach clenched in a not so unpleasant way and he frowned._  

_"John, don't be ridiculous… My bedroom is very close. It's only a minute away if that and-"_

_"Oh bloody hell, just shut up and stay." John grumbled before rolling to the other side and peeling back the covers. Sherlock was about to leave but John shot him a glare. Instead, he stripped down like he always did and climbed without much thought. But when John had stripped down to his red underwear Sherlock had pointedly ignored the way his body had responded. He had chalked it up to the alcohol even thought his mind had told him otherwise. (Erection visible against underwear - obvious arousal)._

But perhaps… it hadn't been the alcohol. Sherlock strolled out from the memory and adjusted his coat as he made his way back into the cafe. The blackboards were filled with a new batch of preferences and quirks of John's.

"Helpful?" The young girl asked as he neared the exit of the shop. 

"Perhaps." Sherlock nodded.

The girl tucked the menu against her chest. "You think him kissing you means something? I think he loves you, if you want my opinion."  

Sherlock turned around and pointed at her. "You are nothing but a figment of my mental library. So no, I didn't ask for your opinion."

"I look after your memories of John in this mind palace of yours. You don't want to think about them so unlike all your other useful memories and information you store them away for someone else to handle them.… And you are right, I am a figment of your imagination… so obviously you suspect that much subconsciously."

Sherlock paused and evaluated her. She was most certainly a figment of his imagination. Only his own head would speak to him that way. "This is ludicrous."

"Well, is there any other reason to explain John bursting back in the room, kissing you with all the fervour of a man gasping for air and leaving again without a word?"

"Maybe it was the confusion of not having seen me for so long or-"

"While you are not well versed in love or feelings, even you are not so silly as to think that Sherlock. What do you always say? Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth." The girl shrugged slightly.

"Dear lord, am I quoting myself?"

"It's not the most vain thing we've ever done." The girl smirked over at Sherlock and it was then that he could see himself in her. 

He smirked back at her before taking a long, scorching sip of his tea. "Very true." Then they sat in silence for a bit. The seasons outside the coffee shop were changing. The snow had drifted down against the windows and then changed to the slow patter of chilly spring rain… by now it it was sunny outside the coffee shop and the light, warm drizzle of summer sprayed the urban London scene outside.

"So, what will you do about it?" The girl finally asked.

Sherlock placed the cup down and turned the handle to the side. "Experimenting is a good way to find the proper conclusion. I'll simply test a hypothesis of mine and study the results." It was the only way he could deal with the idea of John perhaps having feelings towards him. He had to test how John felt, and if he himself truly could feel anything. 

There had always been a deep connection to John, but it had been in such a natural way. Like there was something satisfied deep inside of him to just know that he was around even if he did not wish to be around him all the time. But to let it become something else? That was debatable.

He had to test one thing first. Sherlock turned in the cafe chair to eye the girl. "What do I think then? If you stow my memories and knowledge regarding John, surely you know what I feel?"

She tsked at him and Sherlock grew annoyed by her crypticness. "That would be telling." 

Sherlock didn't have time to waste then. He finished the last of his tea and slammed it down onto the table. "I could tip you but I don't think the pound matters here." He smiled slightly as the girl grinned back at him. 

He left the cafe and went back up the metal staircase with the cold railing to the grand hallway of Neuschwanstein Castle. He was back and the doors were opening to chemistry labs, to a jailhouse filled with criminal records, a tape recorder sat on a table playing back various dialects of South American Spanish as he strolled through the halls. He passed through the grand dining room that was filled to the brim with gold, and then down to the courtyard.

All the while he formulated his hypothesis and manner of experimentation. By the time he was back outside the castle and in the misty, rolling hills of the Essex hamlet Sherlock was almost sure of his plan.

His mind palace was drifting back into the mist.

_The door was slammed shut again as John burst in three hours later. He moved towards Sherlock so quickly he hadn't time to react as the fist collided with his face. Before he could yank his head back, John had taken care of that. "I hate you." John insisted as he fisted up Sherlock's curls and forced his mouth against Sherlock's shocked, unresponsive one. Then something switched and Sherlock moved into it, learning quickly how to follow along with such a strange action. The drag of tongue inside his mouth was wholly unexpected but not unwelcome after he touched the roof of his mouth._

_John was practically groaning as he shoved Sherlock up against the nearest hard surface. "You bloody bastard… you…. ba….stard." John murmured between the kisses, and then he seemed to come to his senses. He threw Sherlock hard against the fireplace mantle, glaring before he wiped his mouth and stormed back out of the room._  

 _Sherlock was left tingling and quite throughly overwhelmed and stunned. For once in his life he did not have a witty remark to throw as John as he left._  

Sherlock's eyes snapped open and he stared up at the ceiling of 221B. He was home, and it seemed his extended trip to his mind palace had come to an end. At least he had come out with a plan. He pressed his steepled fingers against his lips as he waited for the sound of John coming home. It could have been minutes or hours, but eventually he heard the huffing of John after scaling the steps to their shared flat. Sherlock heard the banging of groceries in bags against the wall as John removed his shoes. 

Rolling off the couch, Sherlock approached John quickly. There was no time for John to get flustered and upset as it would pollute his findings. Instead, Sherlock made use of his hands being busy and crowded him. Sherlock registered the disbelief in his face as he swooped in, like his mind could still not reorganize Sherlock back into his life. He sealed their lips together for the second time that day. It was… an unorthodox day to say the least.

The groceries dropped to the floor with a loud crash. Fruit rolled out onto the floor by their feet as John's hands shot up and grabbed up Sherlock's hair (he appeared to favour that). As John's neediness translated through his lips, Sherlock felt a warmth flood his insides (liquid, swirling - pleasure). With time to process how it felt holding his flatmate so close and engaging in something so intimate… it was clear what his findings were.

Sherlock's tongue moved against John's when it found his mouth. Kissing wasn't something he was very experienced with so he allowed John, with his wealth of boring girlfriend experience, to take the lead. His fingers moved away from Sherlock's hair and traced along his jaw before craning in deeper. Now the warmth was creeping up Sherlock's neck and when they pulled apart he couldn't stop a queer little noise as it crawled up his throat. Yes… yes this was very enjoyable. He grinned and slipped in right against John and rested his hands against his sides as his mouth kissed him a few more experimental times.

John was breathing heavily and pulled his jumper over his hand to wipe at the corners of his mouth. "You know…" He pursed his lips and stared. "I'm sorry for before… for hitting you." His stare turned a little annoyed though and Sherlock felt a grin touch his lips as he could hear the words before John even uttered them. "I'm still bloody pissed at you though. Don't get me wrong!" He insisted before rolling his eyes at Sherlock's grin.

He pulled away and began to pick up the fruits. Then he was in the kitchen putting everything away. Hearing John move around the kitchen was comforting, and when Sherlock settled down on the couch with the newspaper he heard him say, "cuppa?" 

Just like that everything slotted back into place in 221B despite the new development. The sameness was reassuring. "Yes… thank you John." Sherlock shook the newspaper before searching for a brand new case.


End file.
